


A French Holiday

by Fyreflare



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, French, Paris - Freeform, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 10:45:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4134549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyreflare/pseuds/Fyreflare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are a young college student, working toward your degree in musical performance, but you can't pass a single foriegn language class, no matter what you try! That is, until you spend the summer completely immersed in everything French. You just might fall in love with the language, culture, and yes, even the country. </p>
<p>Yes, I know that the reader insert fad has all but died, but this was the first type of fanfiction I learned to write, and I think it's only fair that it be one of my last. This was meant to be a remake of a FrancexReader, "Joan of Virginia" I did my sophomore year, but the idea changed drastically. In fact, if anyone has come here from my old deviantart, you'll find the story hardly recognizable. I'd like to think that I've gotten better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on AO3, so if anyone has any advice on using the interface or getting my work out there, please let me know. The only thing I was told is "it's like fanfiction.net, but better!"

It's widely known that nations will seek higher education. This is natural, as many of them have never had a formal schooling in their youth, and have either taught themselves or managed to find tutors in the areas that interested them. And, indeed, many have been successful. It is not uncommon to walk into a nation's home to see displayed, alongside war relics, photographs, and various antiques which were state-of-the-art when purchased, a vast array of varying degrees, often in the fields that particular nation enjoyed, but also in random little studies that another nation dared/encouraged them to get. 

For instance, everyone would expect Arthur Kirkland to have an English Literature degree. He does. Along with American Literature, French Literature, Chinese Literature, English Law, Religious Studies, and Architecture, if you can believe it. 

To a mortal, this many degrees seems excessive, but to an immortal nation, a degree is a badge of honor. At meetings and negotiations, they'll try to outdo each other by referencing something they learned in their studies, or say such things as "Let me handle this one; I DID get a degree in it, after all!" 

Therefore, it ought to come as no surprise that Alfred F Jones has a degree in Musical Performance, with a concentration on jazz. He'd love to show off for you, if you asked. He usually carries a harmonica, but if you're lucky enough and he's in a good enough mood, he keeps his spare sax in his car. What he lacks in voice, he makes up for tenfold in soulful jazz. 

But, I'm sure by now you're thinking "This has nothing to do with the description I read above!" Well, be patient. Honestly, how does one get anything done without a little prep work? 

Alfred obtained his prized music degree at a small school in Louisiana, commonly known for its liberal arts programs. Very small, I'll admit, but top-notch. 

This small school just so happens to be the very one you attend. Don't worry, he hasn't attended here since the 1930s, so this won't be another love triangle story. What fun are those anyway? We all know that the pretty girl chooses to guy who appears out of nowhere and reassured her childhood best friend and person-who-was-most-certainly-planning-marriage that "you'll always be like a brother to me". None of that. 

You came to this school on an audition scholarship, for the purpose of improving your skill, that is, vocal performance. You've been in choirs since middle school, done solos for various jazz bands, and you have a decent amount of followers on Vine, and a note-worthy amount of subscribers on YouTube. However, you and I both know you can't get anywhere on social media alone. Unless you're insanely attractive and/or show your boobs. Let's face it, you're not, and you won't. Not really an insult, but let's just be fair, there's a very small percentage of YouTube star quality faces, and if you're on AO3, chances are, you're not one of them. However, I have no doubt that you are quite pretty. 

As talented and beautiful as you are, those things won't get you a degree alone. This small school in Louisiana requires a foreign language credit. Naturally, you assumed that French would be the easiest. You are just a short distance from New Orleans, and plenty of people spoke French around you, so absorbing it would be a breeze! 

Well, not quite. But luckily, you had gained the favor of the administrators, and your advisor was willing to pull all sorts of strings to get you to graduate. So, he called an old student of his, and asked a favor on your behalf. 

And so, that's how you ended up on a boat, crossing the English Channel, a twinge (or more) of seasickness having driven you to the open air, with your nation by your side, giving you the reassurance you needed that you weren't being tossed into Europe to fend for yourself. 

Thus starts your college's last effort to get you to pass French: a summer with Francis Bonnefoi.


	2. Just Call It Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Chapter 1 out of I don't even know how many at this point. Just some exposition, some general conversation. Honestly I'm just using this fanfic to recap my trip to Europe, which I'm still on while I'm writing this. I'm actually in Austria at the moment, but I can assure you that riding a boat across the English Channel is not fun. It's like standing on the saddle of a bucking horse. 
> 
> Anyhow, the chapter summarys are bound to get more interesting as this progresses. For now, you get me rambling on. Lucky you

You wobbled on your feet, the ship lurching as another wave splashed against the hull. You were going to be sick. Your knuckles tightened around the cold railing, seaspray coating your face in a salty mist. 

Miserable. That was the only word you had for the Channel. You understood now why the English and French had such bad relations. Perhaps if the Channel was friendlier, they would be as well. 

A lump caught in your throat, tasting unsettlingly like the terrible food you had attempted to eat in the dining area. How did people just do that? Sit and eat and read the paper! Did they have no inner ear? You leaned over the side of the ship, certain that the dry, lumpy potatoes were going to make a reappearance at any moment. 

A hand slapped your back, sending your stomach smashing into the wet metal, the shock making you forget about the nausea. The owner of the hand laughed. "You okay there? Starting to look a little green."

Naturally, you thought. However, you thought better than to be so snarky to one's own nation. "I'm just seasick, Alfred. It happens."

He nodded. "Yeah, I feel you. But at least it's a nice day."

That was true. Though the weather had predicted rain, a pleasant amount of sunshine greeted the American couple as you made your steady progress toward France. And, indeed, you did seem like a couple to everyone aboard the ship. Alfred never left your side, not once. Well, just once. He bought a soda while you used the water closet, but that hardly counted. 

The ever-growing shoreline beckoned to you, a gentle humming rising to replace the proposed vomit. It seemed surreal. You've seen this place in pictures, and heard about it. Isn't this where they did the D-Day thing? Or was that a different beach? You HAD passed a lot of beaches on your journey.... Honestly, you saw land a half hour ago. Why couldn't you just dock there and let you off this godforsaken boat? 

You sighed, closing your eyes. Maybe it wasn't all bad. If this was terrible, then the rest of your summer would be a breeze. You comforted yourself with that thought. 

"You're being quiet." Alfred observed, leaning backward on the bar, facing away from their destination. "What's up?"

You sighed. "Just thinking." 

"About?" His fingers drummed merrily on the steel. 

"Stuff." You replied curtly, then thought again. "Actually, I'm curious. What is France like?"

"Hm?" He pondered this for a moment. "The country or the country?"

Ugh. Nations. "France, then FrancIS, if you please."

"Ah." He smiled. "Well, I like the countryside. Never very fond of Paris. It's a good place for a vacation, but I could never live there. Too.... French. Plus there's gypsies everywhere. Ask Francis to help you avoid them. They'll rob you blind if you aren't careful." He paused. 

"Anyway," he continued, "it's a nice place. As for Francis, well, he's a romantic. His accent will surprise you at first, but you'll get used to it. He's really nice to women, and men. And a really good cook. Ask him for anything, and he'll make it. But crepes." He closed his eyes. "Those are to die for. Especially with just a little apricot jam, some whipped cream, a sprinkle of powdered sugar."

He shivered. "Promise me you'll try at least one?"

You smiled, despite the thought of food making you quite ill. "I promise."

The conversation ended with that, leaving you both in relative silence until the harbor came into view, at which time a bell sounded, and the two of you went below deck once more. You crossed your fingers, praying that you wouldn't meet your tutor with a retch.


End file.
